Downtown
by writerfan2013
Summary: The Post Office team is heading to Manhattan for a rare evening out. Liz has a secret she's not sure she's ready to tell. Red has plenty on his mind. And the team are desperate to know about the new man in Liz's life. Red/Liz but featuring everybody. This is a sequel to Midtown. Two shot. Lizzington!
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note:** this is a little AU since Meera is alive and for whatever reason the Post Office is in or close to Manhattan.

* * *

><p>"What's going on with you? You've been drinking that cup of coffee for an hour."<p>

Liz looks up at Donald Ressler as he looms over her desk at the Post Office. There is no telling what time it is . The lighting in this place always stays the same: Federal fluorescent, plus shadowy dark corners. It might be just after breakfast, or way past lunch. Or midnight. The coffee cup is in her hand. "And?"

"And it's been empty for half an hour."

He raises his eyebrows at her and she flushes as she sees that it was true. "Huh. I'm losing it. What did you want?"

"Oh. A few of the guys are going out tonight. Thought you might want to join us."

"Uh..."

"It's not just a work thing," he adds hurriedly."Some people are bringing their girlfriends, wives, whatever. Dates."

"Right." Where is he going with this? Like she cares if a bunch of them go out after work in any configuration.

"I just figured, since you and Tom -"

She gives him the look.

Don knows the look. The looks that says she will kick his ass if he so much as mentions her marriage to her no good lying cheating fake husband. "Yeah, anyway, do you wanna come?"

"It's not really my scene," she says.

Don picks at papers on the edge of her desk. "Right." Then he looks up with the glint of a man who has a trump card up his sleeve. "We're going to Mojo."

"Oh." That puts a different complexion on it. Mojo is a club downtown which has become the place to be in Manhattan. As so often in New York, this happened overnight: one day there was a nice bar and club in the financial district serving sherry and salsa to exhausted hedge fund managers; next day, even Beyonce couldn't get in without a door pass. "Supposed to be good," she says as casually as possible.

Don laughs. "That's it Keen, play it down. Aram got us all door passes after he did their security team a favour. We just jumped the waiting list for a booth by like eight months."

"It would be kind of cool", she admits.

"All right then. Shall I count you in?"

She nods, smiling.

"No date," says Don, as if writing it down.

Liz frowns. "Wait up. Who says I don't have a date?"

Don can backpedal faster than anyone she has ever seen. He should be an Olympian. "Oh hey, I didn't mean - I just thought -"

"I have a date," she says.

It is a little sad that he looks so crestfallen. and a little mean that she finds that so satisfying. "I'll see you there at eight," he says. "With your date." _If he exists_, runs the silent end of that sentence.

"Ok then."

"Ok then." Then she feels gulty. Don is a good guy. She can't help that he has a hopeless crush on her. "Thanks," she says. "I didn't mean to be such a grouch. Things on my mind, you know?"

He gives a shy grin. "I get it. I'll see you later."

Liz waits until he has gone before picking up her phone. She punches her speed dial. "Hey."

The deep slow voice on the end of the line says, "Good afternoon to you too. Is this business or pleasure?"

She cannot bring herself to say the word _Pleasure _out loud in the office. "I wondered if you wanted to come out tonight. To Mojo?" She holds her breath. Raymond Reddington is not her boyfriend. Not her friend. Not her colleague. It is hard to say what he is except that they have been seeing an awful lot of each other since his unorthodox proposal last month.

"Mojo. Ah, that takes me back." He is full of surprises. It's one of the things she likes about him.

"You know it?"

"Only in passing. I had a breakfast meeting nearby one morning and I was intrigued to see the number and sheer variety of minor celebrities staggering out under the weight of their hangovers. I mean people who couldn't get into the Jungle if they hung upside down in their underwear and ate raw scorpions off their own naked chests."

"So do you wanna come? It's kind of a work thing."

"I'd love to. Are we travelling incognito in separate cars, or arriving arm in arm, loud and proud?" She pictures him, composed and suave in his car or perhaps on his jet, glancing idly out of the window while asking the question, the terrifying question.

"Uh. I'm not sure. -The second thing." What is she doing? But she has told Ressler she has a date.

Reddington exhales. "All right then. I'll meet you there. My goodness it's been years since I had the stem of a rose between my teeth." There is background noise on his end of the line. Voices, shouts.

"Ressler's face will be a picture," says Liz.

Red chuckles. " I can't wait. I plan on dancing with everybody."

"Oh my God."

"Come on. Lizzie. Live a little. I have to go now" (she hears the unmistakable sound of gunshots) "but I will be there."

"Eight o'clock." His line is breaking up.

"I'll bring my castanets!" The call fizzles out in static and gunfire.

Lizzie clutches the phone and looks around her office. Everyone is working away, no doubt anticipating a fun night of drinks and dancing at the hottest club in town. Maybe whilst tracking or hacking or profiling, her colleagues are planning what to wear tonight, or who might be amenable to a late night liaison after a couple of drinks. Their biggest problem will be finding a cab in lower Manhattan after midnight.

Lizzie has bigger problems. First of all, this will be her first office night out since her divorce and she just knows that her co-workers are curious to see the all-business Agent Keen let her hair down.

And second of all, even given that she has already sparked a gossip wildfire by announcing that she will be bringing a date, she knows that not one of her colleagues is prepared for her to show up smiling on the arm of the FBI's Most Wanted Raymond Reddington.


	2. Chapter 2

The music is loud and Latin and the lights are low. Aram's favour has got the Post Office crowd a plush semicircular booth overlooking the dance floor. Waiters with glass cloths draped on their forearms bring trays crammed with elegant sherry glasses, and decanters. This is like being real VIPs, people who matter, not just the usual overglamorised but underappreciated federal grind.

The mood is light. Don is wearing a blue short-sleeved shirt and chinos, as a major concession to being off duty. Meera is fabulous in a tight plum coloured dress that ends in a frill around her thighs. Aram smokes a cheroot and is very pleased with himself in a red velvet jacket.

Lizzie is in green, a chiffon summer dress converted for evening with the addition of black jewellery and a lot of mascara. She thinks she looks ok and she has quite enjoyed her taste of sherry and Meera has admired her silver nail polish and the music is pretty good she supposes but she is hunched in the booth not dancing because Red is not here.

"He didn't show up, huh." Don sits beside her. His hair fluffed from dancing. "Hey Liz. I'm sorry."

Liz says nothing. She is not going to defend Red. She's not going to bitch about him either. She thinks of the gunfire and hopes he is ok.

Aram says, "Who is he, anyway? Anyone we know?" Aram is a little the worse for wear. "He's a lucky guy. That much I know."

"He's a damn fool for letting Liz wait around," says Don.

"He must be pretty sure of himself," says Aram. "The arrogant type. Thinks he's something special."

"It's just bad manners," says Don. He knocks back sherry in a way that even Liz knows is meant for vodka, not Spanish fortified wine, and eyes Liz. "Hey. Seeing as you're on your own-"

Liz picks up her purse. "I have to go to the bathroom."

Meera goes too. They click down a padded corridor in their high heels and enter a bathroom which has its own foyer. For the moment, no one else is there. The din of the club ends completely once the door is closed and there is blessed quiet.

Liz applies lipstick for an unnecessarily long time. The lights in here are carefully arranged for checking makeup. A long counter runs the length of the room. Many mirrors reflect the hard surfaces and gilt fixtures.

"It's Reddington, right?" Meera says, turning to Liz.

Liz stares at her, eyes wide. She bites her lip and nods.

"Are you sleeping with him?" Meera asks, perching up on the counter.

"What? No!"

Meera smiles sideways. "Not yet, you mean."

Liz rummages in her bag for an imaginary thing she must find. "How did you know?"

"The way you look at each other."

"We've always looked at each other that way."

Meera jumps down. "Yeah. But now you don't look so sad about it."

Liz grabs her arm. "Do you think I'm going crazy? I mean. Reddington."

Meera sighs. "He's a killer. But so are you."

"My job!"

"Well, many shades of justification. -He's got a mysterious past."

"So do I," Liz says.

"There you go then. He's not a terrible fit. Plus, of course, he's loaded."

"Meera!"

"And hot. Did I mention hot?" She grins wickedly.

"He's -" Liz cannot deny Red's hotness. The deep blue eyes, the sensual mouth, the kisses made of equal parts reverence and desire - "We've been seeing each other a couple of weeks," she says. "When he's around. Which has not been a lot. You know. No case."

Things have been quiet at the Post Office. Too quiet for Liz's liking. And Red has been very absent for a man who not a month ago was on one knee, not entirely facetiously suggesting - something. An alliance. His disappearance is odd. As if perhaps Liz has misjudged the situation. This is such an uncomfortable thought that Liz grabs the lipstick and starts with Dont Be Coy all over again.

"It's your business," says Meera. "Just look after yourself, ok?"

"Because he's still a federal suspect?"

Meera looks at Liz pityingly. "Because he's a man."

* * *

><p>The evening wears on. Liz has a couple more drinks. Sherry sneaks up on you. Softer and sweeter than shots, it is nonetheless strong stuff. She decides she isn't going to let being stood up ruin her evening. She grabs Meera's hand. "Let's dance." They join the others downstairs.<p>

Don has zero rhythm. Aram is almost as smooth as he wishes he was. Meera hams it up with exaggerated cha-cha-chas. Before long Liz is smiling. The others take a break but she carries on, feeling the rhythm, shimmying along with the crowd.

Then firm hands are on her waist and a deep, lazy voice says into her ear, "What do you say we blow this joint?"

Reddington. He has snuck up behind her and is swaying in time to the beat, his hips rubbing her bottom. His jaw is against her hair. She laughs. "Who died and made you Humphrey Bogart?"

"Humphrey Bogart. How about it, dollface?" He spreads his fingers across her belly.

She spins round and grabs him in a more conventional ballroom stance. "What happened to you?"

He is in a white shirt, no tie and the collar undone, a black vest with scarlet silk back buttoned neatly and ending in points over his narrow hips. Black suit trousers. Black shiny shoes. And he smells of sunset in Cuba, warm almonds mingling with woodsmoke and rum. Liz laces her fingers with his.

His smile is rich like chocolate. "Sorry I'm late. You look delicious." He twirls her round, his eyes following her appreciatively. "Mmn-mnn."

"No way," comes Ressler's voice from behind Liz. Red swings them around to face Don. "What the hell is he doing here?"

Red's smile twists and chills. The chocolate turns bitter. "Good evening, Donald. And as I'd have thought even your powers of perception could have worked out, I'm dancing with Agent Keen." He spins Liz round again and she lands somewhat heavily in his arms.

"Hey," says Don to Red. "That is not appropriate." He gestures at Red's hands, now clasped loosely around Liz's waist.

"Simmer down, Don " says Meera, appearing out of the crowd with Aram.

"Are you ok?" Aram asks Liz.

"I'm fine. Thank you." She slips away from Red, whose expression is fixed. He's still smiling but she knows he is irritated. She stands beside him, not touching him.

Don just knows there is a story here. He turns to Liz, cutting Red out. Red tilts his head and raises his eyebrows at this and everyone but Don and Liz shrinks back. "Hey Liz, what's going on?"

"Nothing," says Liz and a fierce pain clutches her heart. Red is gazing at her. "Dancing," she says, but the damage is done."

Don is repulsed. "He's old enough to be your -"

"This reminds me of a wedding I once attended in Colombia," says Red, "when two rival drug lords both arrived for the celebrations. Very awkward. That tiny mountaintop church fairly bristled with egos and assault rifles. And as you can imagine the seating plan for the wedding breakfast was a nightmare."

There is a silence in which Liz and Don glare at each other, Aram and Meera stare at Red and Red smiles blithely at everyone.

"Let's get a drink," says Meera eventually.

"Allow me," says Red.

* * *

><p>"Well," says Red, lifting off his hat and placing it on his knee as the limo door closes. "Wasn't that fun?"<p>

He shucks his shirt cuffs and turns to Liz with a quizzical frown. "Apart from the insignificant detail that you invited me as your date and then, faced with the disapprobation of your colleagues, you backed away and barely acknowledged me."

"They think I've gone insane."

"They can take a running jump."

She stares out of the window.

"Let me be abundantly clear," says Red. "If you'd said we should be discreet I was quite prepared to respect that. But you told me you wanted to come out of the closet about our new arrangement and so perhaps you can understand why I am ticked off."

She watches the iron framed buildings float past.

"And before you ask," Red adds. "Yes, we are having a fight."

Of course Red is good at this. He does not need to throw things or make wild accusations. He is king of succinct and clear communication. It is she who has screwed up. She knows it and cannot think how to make it right.

They ride north.

"Where shall I drop you off?" Red asks.

She blinks. He usually makes strident efforts to be invited upstairs for coffee. Or if they are already upstairs, not to leave.

He gives her a cold glance. "It was never about the sex, Lizzie." He seems weary.

"The sex we're not having."

"Yes. That sex exactly."

A couple more blocks drift past. Liz notices that they have swung round in a loop and are now back on FDR drive travelling south. Manhattan Bridge flies past. Brooklyn Bridge is staunch up ahead, lit with ice-white lamps. The car eases left onto the bridge and the lights wash over Liz's face in a steady rhythm.

Red taps on the glass and the car swings off into the green avenue by the park and stops. They are beyond the circles of light cast by the ornate lamp posts, and the city opposite is the only bright thing in view. "Dembe," says Red. "Would you mind leaving us? I'll drive us home."

Dembe gets out without a word and walks away. Liz is mortified to see him give them an unimpressed look as he goes.

She turns to Red. He is holding his hat on his knee. He is frowning and she sees in his face the reflection of her own pain. "I'm sorry," she says softly. "I wasn't ready." She covers his hand cautiously with her own. "I thought I was. But I'm not."

He contemplates her fingers resting on his. "I assume it's the same story with the sex?"

"Stop talking about the sex!"

"Oh," he says, turning to her with that swiftness which characterises his thoughts, that deadly grace he hides beneath languorous speech and exquisite tailoring. "Does the word offend you? Sex sex sex." His eyes are bright.

"Oh you're impossible." Relief makes her grip his hand.

"Yes." He curls his fingers around hers.

"I don't want to fight with you." Liz takes a breath and lets it out slowly.

"Are you sure?" Red has not taken his eyes off her.

"Yes!"

"Because you know what fighting involves." He flings his hat into the front seat.

"What?" says Liz and then knows she has walked right into his trap.

Red lunges across and catches her round the waist. In two seconds she is flat on her back across the seat, his lips are pressed to her neck and he has one hand tangled in her hair, one hand revelling in the chiffon over her ribs. "The making up," says Red.

She laughs and lets him worship her with kisses to her throat, her cleavage, all the way to her belly. "Red, wait, stop." They are parked on a public street and she knows from experience his speed and expertise with a clasp.

"Don't worry, if the cops come I can pretend to be getting something out of your eye."

If her eye were somewhere on her right thigh. "It's not that." She levers him off her and sits up.

His shirt is rumpled. What little hair he has is sticking up. "What, then?"

She says, "You left the headlamps on," and as he turns to check she tackles him and pins him horizontal across the seat, his hands above his head.

He thinks it's hilarious. "Oh really?"

Liz flicks her hair out of her eyes and says with great dignity, "Yes really. Because I might not want to share our secret with everyone, but that doesn't mean -" her left hand wraps around his pinned wrists, her right undoes his vest - "that I don't love that secret." She runs her palm from his forehead down his cheek to his collar and gives him her frostiest stare.

"Ah," says Red admiringly. "In which case, be my guest."

"I fully intend to."

She ignores his very faint protests and puts her mouth on his neck as he laughs and laughs.


End file.
